“Nay, just go. I am so filled with fury that my head aches and my stomach churns. I am nay good company this eve. I need to think, need to get rid of some of this anger that is making me lose all my wits. If I dinnae, then I will nay be able to work.
Henry could win and then all of Scotland will suffer.”
Simon winced as the door shut behind the departing MacBean. The man had called him Simon. MacBean had not done so since Simon had been a beardless boy. He must be in a far worse condition than he had realized.
“I think I need to get drunk. I need to drink until I fall on my face and my mind ceases to work,” he said as he stared up at the ceiling.
A bad idea, he decided a moment later. Drink might put him down for a while, but it would take some time for it to do so. Simon did not want to consider what he might do when that drink mixed with the fury inside him. He could wake in the morning, head aching, to discover he had done something very foolish or taken his anger out on some poor fool who crossed his path.
What he did not understand was the depth of his anger. He had not seen his home for a very long time and he had few good memories of it. The despair he suffered over its impending loss made no sense. There were good people there, ones like MacBean and Old Bega, but he had not seen them in ten years, either.
That left Henry as the cause of his fury. Henry, who had tormented all of his siblings with brute force and rages. The man had even slaughtered Simon’s first dog and tossed the carcass onto his bed while he was sleeping in it. Henry never discussed anything. If a person did not agree with his opinion or plan, he beat them until they did or they died, whichever came first. Henry was not particular. Simon decided that there was where his fury was born, in the knowledge that Henry was still destroying all that had been good at Lochancorrie.
Perhaps he should just hunt his brother down and kill him. That would put an end to the danger to the clan and its land. Once Henry was dead the other traitors would be easy enough to catch and punish. A small, still sane part of Simon was dismayed by how reasonable that sounded to the rest of him. The boy who had grieved over his dog and the young man who had dragged his bleeding, ravaged body back to his foster father both liked the idea.
A madness had seized him. It was the only explanation for how he was feeling and the things he was thinking of. Simon knew he had to get some control over himself. He just did not know how; he had never felt such anger before and no skill in caging it.
Perhaps there was more of Henry and their father in him than he had realized. The mere thought that he might carry some of that tainted blood chilled Simon so deeply that, for a brief moment, his anger eased. He shook the thought out of his head, refusing to believe it.
The sound of soft footfalls caught his attention and he braced himself. He knew who was coming down the stairs and walking to his door. The breaking of the mirror must have roused Ilsabeth. His lover who was hiding from false accusations because his brother thought he had a right to be king, he suddenly realized. His own blood had had a hand in bringing her such trouble.
That was the source of at least some of his anger. Because of Henry’s ambitions, Ilsabeth could not go home nor could her family. She had to hide in Simon’s home while her family hid away in the hills around Aigballa. All she had suffered was because of his family, his blood. Simon did not know if he could face her now that he knew the truth.
Her soft rapping at the door stirred him to answer. He wanted to tell her to flee, to just yell it through the closed door, but Simon knew he owed her more than that. He just did not know how to explain that the root of all her troubles was her lover’s brother.
When she stepped into the room in answer to his invitation, he nearly cursed. She looked still warm from their bed. Her hair was uncombed and there was still a sleepy look in her wide blue eyes. His body hardened. She was what he needed. Ilsabeth had the soft touch to soothe his fury, he was certain of it. He would have left her alone tonight if she had stayed in bed. But, she was near, standing by his worktable and looking at him with concern, and every tortured part of him wanted to reach for her.
Chapter 11
The sound of breaking glass yanked Ilsabeth from her rest. She reached out for Simon but found only the chilled linen. For several moments she lay still, listening carefully. There was the murmur of voices coming from below and, although she could not hear what was being said, she could hear the sharpness of anger behind some of the words. Then she heard MacBean’s distinctive tread, one that was very nearly a stomp, disappearing into the back of the house. A door slammed and then there was silence.
She closed her eyes and told herself to go back to sleep, but that proved to be impossible. Something had upset Simon. Ilsabeth was certain of it. She had to go to him, she decided, as she climbed out of bed and donned a robe.
It was not until she stood before the door to his ledger room that she hesitated. If he truly needed her or wanted her he would come to her. Simon was such a private man and so proud of his control, he might not wish anyone to see him so out of control now that he was breaking things.
Ilsabeth was just about to turn around and quietly retreat to her bedchamber when her courage returned. Simon might not see it yet but she knew they were destined to be together. She could not keep slinking away for fear that she would breach one of the many walls he kept around his secrets and emotions. Ilsabeth knew that even though she loved Simon, she would never survive a life with him if he kept himself so locked away. She needed to be part of his life, not just the woman who stood beside him. She rapped on the door and, when he called out for her to enter, she did so without any hesitation.
Until she saw him. The door was closing behind her and she had the sudden feeling that she was now trapped in a room with a wolf. This was a Simon she did not know. There was no calm, no restraint in his expression. He was not just angry, he was absolutely enraged.
“Simon?” She tried not to look as timid as she felt as she cautiously stepped closer to him.
“This isnae a good time for ye to come to me, sweet,” he said as he slowly stood up and started to walk around his worktable.
He prowled toward her. It was the only word that truly described the way he moved. Like some large predator on the hunt. Ilsabeth fought the urge to run. She experienced a tickle of fear even though she knew he would never hurt her. Pure lust swamped that unease, however. Ilsabeth could not understand how having a furious man stalk her could make her desire for him rise so swiftly it made her a little light-headed.
“Nay? I heard a crash.” She glanced at the broken mirror before meeting and holding his sharp, heated gaze. “Something troubles ye, Simon. Can ye nay allow me to help ye?”
“Och, aye, ye are about to help me verra much indeed.”
He lunged and Ilsabeth could not fully smother a cry that held an odd blend of fear and excitement. When Simon grasped her around the waist and pulled her hard against him, her feet dangled off the floor and she wrapped her limbs around his lean body. He gave her a kiss so fierce and demanding it bordered on painful. Ilsabeth knew she ought to protest such rough handling but she did not really want to. A Simon not in control of himself, even if it was because of an anger he had not yet explained to her, was proving to be wondrously exciting.
She shifted her position in his arms just enough to press her aching womanhood against the long hard length of him. The way he shuddered excited her even more, giving her a delicious sense of power. Even the noise he made stroked her desire. It was a low growl that reached deep within her and demanded that she meet, and equal, the wild passion he was revealing to her.
Simon moved toward the wall with Ilsabeth curled around him. Each step he took caused her to rub against his throbbing erection. He knew he was caught up in some lust-induced madness, but now that he held her in his arms, could sense her eager welcome, he could not leash it. That small, still sane part of him that fought valiantly against the fury that held him captive began to pray that he did not hurt her.
When he got her securely trapped between his hungry body and the wall, he gritted his teeth against the fierce need to thrust deep into her heat and pound out the fury enslaving him, to release it along with his seed. He wanted to bury himself in her moist fire until it burned away his raging anger. Panting like a dog caught out in the summer sun for too long, Simon kept a death grip on the last tiny shred of sanity he retained and slipped his hand between her slim thighs, determined to at least ready her for the onslaught. He found her already hot, wet, and welcoming.
Cursing softly with impatience, he yanked her nightgown up to her waist, loosed himself from his clothing and thrust home, all within such a short period of time, he knew his sane self would probably be utterly mortified later. This wildness was unlike him but he was sunk too deep in the pleasure to care.
